


Gingerhaired Muse

by ASignificantWhisper



Series: Gingerhaired Muse [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-11 09:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5622979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASignificantWhisper/pseuds/ASignificantWhisper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With fascination, comes a mutual understanding. When Jerome Valeska, the object of your unrequited affections - appears within your sights, unexpectedly - will you turn away from the criminally insane maniac, or let your desire cloud all common sense and drag you into his adventure?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Muse

**Author's Note:**

> I had a better summary. Ugh. It's late and I came up with this drabble that will blend with this long standing fic I have in mind. No smut yet. But lemme know if I should continue with part 2? 
> 
> Note : tags will come along as the stuff is written into the chapters, yada, yada, lol.

He's good, so good. And he doesn't even know it. You want him to know it. Oh so deliciously do you ever want this boy to know how excruciatingly beautiful he is. You stare too long, way too long at the picture frame that sheathed his picture behind the glass overlay. Will he even remember you? The creepy little school girl with one too many obsessions and hopes - her camera following her in sweet suite?

 

 

You curl a piece of your own hair around your finger, eyeing it with disdain. Would he appreciate this? It is still ever the same. Wavy, cooperative if you slept on it fresh from a shower. You hook a finger to pull your reading glasses off your face. Too dorky, pathetic for his tastes? You mentally berate yourself. As _if_ you _actually_ have a chance with him. You wouldn't make it anywhere near him in a calm manner, ever, let alone get his opinion on your appearance. You never really had in the time you were within his company. Always overly anxious.

 

This self-negative thought plagues you over and over when you look at his picture. The one you have pulled to since you took it with your camera. Right before the Gotham City Police Department took him. _Never good enough for him, am I?_ You tell yourself, completely beguiled with deflated self-esteem. Still, after the near two years that have passed.

 

 

You had been going to the circus grounds - at first, to take some pictures for the community activity pages in your college newspaper. But when you saw the red head, well, school assignment or not - you were already head over hills. Ass over elbow. The whole shebang. Jerome Valeska was seventeen at the time you first met. At the instance you first saw him.

 

Dressed in dark jeans with a long deep burgundy turtle neck, a wrap coat thrown over it - stood a tall ginger with the most striking physique. The most perfect creamy skin, the loveliest amounts of haunting freckles, the perfectly shaped jawline, with the best feature of all - the parted fire red hair.

 

 

You bite your lip at the memory of first drinking him all in. He was sitting on a hay stack, watching the patrons pass between tents, taking a break from running the milk bottle prize game. You couldn't help but to inch closer, noticing the large boot covered feet, the way too big hands with long freckled fingers. Christ, did he have freckles _all over_ ? Red hair... _all over_? A crowd of girls had gone by and giggled slightly - noticing his attractiveness, but not willing to act on what they deemed 'carnie folk'. Stupid bitches, you had muttered to yourself, approaching the boy before you could think twice about it. When did you get that bold?

 

 

Only, your courage didn't quite keep itself together as you finally fell a few feet away from the beautiful red head. So striking, so intimidating, yet quiet, sullen looking. You remember him lifting his gaze after a moment, surprised to see someone staring slack jawed. He had the most breathtaking green eyes, even more freckles than you thought, or saw beforehand.

 

 

He was so... perfect that you shrunk lower than low, kicking yourself for even thinking about coming his way. What were you doing? Sneaking up to perve on a circus sex god? That notion briefly comforted you, causing you to giggle out loud. You watched the ginger rise off the bale of hay, stepping closer to you. Your smile obliterated with a massive wash back. You swallowed the rapidly violent butterflies clawing their way out of your stomach and into your throat. He towered you in a considerable few inches of height, stealing your breath right from your lungs.

 

 

He swept a hand through the air, his fingertip bopping your nose to your lip. His tone was soft, you'll always remember how soft the first time Jerome Valeska spoke to you. How his touch left a burning on your skin.

 

"There's nothing more contagious than laughter," He had said to you, leaving you with that.

 

 

It wasn't until your next weekend of meeting him, wandering the grounds that he had told you your laugh jump started his mood. He had rewarded you with a teddy bear from the prize booth - his favorite one. It was a small gesture, a simple stuffed toy that you clung to almost as much as Jerome, because he had given it to you. Someone took notice in you. Someone that you never thought would ever in a million years. The object of your affections. And this was something he gave you, when he didn't have to.

 

 

You doted on it, clung to it when you felt anxiety. It helped your mood greatly sky rocket. When you weren't at the circus, watching him, looking at him, daydreaming about him, you were in your room doing all of those things. You spent the year with Jerome Valeska on your mind, even when the circus left town. He was the name on your lips when you came at your own hand. The reason for the goosebumps peppering your flesh if you saw a red head of hair in a crowd. Forget looking at green eyes, freckles. Jerome Valeska had ruined you. He ruined you that year, ruined you through your eighteenth birthday and his own. All guys paled in comparison to your unrequited lover.

 

 

You felt so wrong, feeling that strongly over someone who probably fucked a lot of pretty girls with thin waist lines and perfect hair and makeup. Not some book geek with extra pounds, too big of breasts, leggings and boots filling up her closet, no makeup, and simple wavy hair that often protested a brush running through it without pain. It felt so right though, being around him. A while after your eighteenth birthday, you had taken that photo of him in the dark black jeans, a long sleeved shirt and that coat that framed his statue. He felt like your muse.

 

 

Jerome didn't seem to mind your obsession with him. He often did things to fuel it, you noticed. But you never let it get to your head, knowing he wouldn't have been too into you. Shortly after, he was arrested for the woman you often knew hurt him, that was his mother. You weren't stupid. You had heard and seen the abuse, the yelling. It made you want to gather him and run far away with him. Fuck Gotham and those that sought to downgrade and strike you both. The papers painted him in a light you weren't really sure of. Maniac, crazy, violent. You knew he was different, but this? He hadn't been completely unhinged before. Now, probably, but it didn't stop your pull to him. This cosmic fucking ignorance willing you to want him even more. And now here you are, back in the present, staring at that picture. Missing your desirable ginger muse.

 

 

You sigh and uncurl your sweatpants clad leg from underneath you, a rasping set of rough knuckles echoing in indents across your door. Probably your mom or your dad. They had told you they'd be back from the family dinner. They would bring you leftovers. You breathe out roughly, pulling the door open to be met by that ginger breath capturing, heart stopping muse of yours. His red lips part, so soft, so full, freckles decorating the features around his face. You watch his jugular clench with a swallowing breath he takes before speaking.

 

 

"Hi, gorgeous. You remember me? I'm Jerome."

 

 


	2. Gratifying Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the object of your affections asks to stay - do you turn him away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late, I'm tired, I've been working on this for days as I've had writer's block for a month. I still think this might not be the best, lol, but what author isn't critical of themselves? I just wanna get back in the writing game. If there's mistakes I don't catch, then I'm sure I'll correct them at some point. 
> 
> I tried a little switching up with the smut in this chapter. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint? This story is gonna be a lot different than anything I've ever written, so obviously the smut will follow that pattern. Anyways, hope you enjoy? Let me know what you think here & on Tumblr - via comments and kudos, please! :) 
> 
> http://wroteclassicaly.tumblr.com/

"Jerome?" The words fall right out of your mouth like your sacred prayer.

The stunning redhead just gives a tad tilt, that rogue piece of red hair flopping onto his forehead. You watch it weightlessly collide with the creamy, freckled skin, your tongue rolling across your lips on its own dangerous accord at the action, raw instinct this is. He catches it, of course he does. Always so cunning and quick-witted, so cocky, you note. Now that he doesn't have to hide it.

But you knew, oh you knew that even back then it was there on the surface. Your muse could never fool you or your heart. It's as if this is a delicious song tuned to repeat. His deep voice catches with a contagious chuckle, his posture still propped in your bedroom doorway. He tuts a sigh, mumbling about your manners, but still giving you his patience. It's his widening green iris's that coerce you from your trance, pushing you to step back, offering him an invite inside your hideaway from the shitstorm of Gotham.

"Who else is this exciting in person, baby girl?" He grins like the maniac he is at you, plopping himself back onto your bed, giving it a bounce.

Your jaw falls slack a bit, your eyes slowly blinking to process everything as you shut the door. _Jerome is on my bed, fuck. Fuck, that is all I wanna do. Ride him into the mattress. His ass is on my bed. The sheets are gonna smell like him, Jesus. I can't breathe right now. Okay, get it together, you fuck._ You scold yourself, flashing your muse a timid grin, hesitantly dropping beside him. You can't help the nerves in you that push the question through your throat and right out of your mouth. "Why here though? What are you doing /here/?"

You find you can't brush over the hoarseness to ask anything else, so you let him answer.

"Well I know you, don't I? Before the fame and.... lack of fortune. And I need to be here for a while, doll."

"Like stay here - be here a while?" You stammer in shock to his nods.

He came to see you, stay?

You're unsure if he's serious, his games most likely in high gear. Why else would he come to you when he could go anywhere, with /anyone/. Emphasis on the anyone part, always. He must sense this, seeing you fiddle with your hands in your lap, as he's on his knees, scooting closer to you. What you're not prepared for is the settling proximity he gives you, resting his chin onto your shoulder, breath fanning your face.

You're realizing your walls are actually in need of a coat of paint from how hard you stare them through in front of you, your breathing escalating with force. Jerome seems un-phased, truthful even. A little melancholy?

"I feel safe with you, Y/N. I know you from before all this. You know me. Don't try and deny it."

"But I don't, I'm...." You cut yourself off, still overthinking his heartwarming words. He's charming you on purpose, he has to be.

He shakes the auburn mane, distracting you enough to turn, your noses now brushing. You feel the lightening sharp ache between your legs, your eyes glassing over. If either of you inch closer, then.... then..... it'll happen. It c-a-n happen.

"You're somebody," Jerome breaks your words off, lifting his chin from your shoulder, his fingers scraping over your comforter, inching like a winding snake towards your hand. He separates your unknowing deathly white knuckled grip loose, sliding those long freckle covered fingers through yours to fit together.

You can't move, can't comprehend. You're snapped whole just by him holding your hand. _How does it feel so right already?_ Jerome raises your entwined fingers, looking at the clasped limbs in fascination. "I like touching you."

"Why?" You repeat yourself, teeth crumbling down over your bottom lip to bite the plump flesh between.

Jerome heaves a light sigh, the action causing his hair to unruly gather in a part that he doesn't take too fondly of. He's not even hesitating on which hand to use, bringing both yours to run through his red hair to get it back in its coiffed place.

"Ah, better." He nods, flashing you a devious pearly white grin.

His hair. Your fingers were running through his soft hair and it felt better than you imagined of the countless times you pictured it. You don't hold back your combing control, now weaving a knuckle deep wave through his locks. He lets his hand slack into a slink back on the bed, simply letting you administer the curious touches. His eyes are closed in a blissful serenity when you break your hold, remembering yourself. Jerome answers you once more, swaying to the previous rhythm your fingers had slid into his hair.

"Because I trust you," He replies, eyes opening under thick lashes.

You go quietly into that confused state of mind. What do you do? This is what you want. It's mind-bogglingly coming true. Who gives a fuck about the reasons that can change at any given moment? You incline your head to gather eye contact with your ginger.

"You have to stay in here, with me. My parents can't know, Jerome," You're whispering. Why the fuck are you whispering?

"Or I could just kill them and walk around this place in my underwear?"

Your startling heartbeat vice grips your lungs, pounding into your ribcage. But he's laughing at you, shaking his head. "You're breathing too hard, gorgeous. I'm kidding you. I'll lay off them since it's you. They raised you, right? Can't be too bad to bring someone like you up this way."

"Okay," You sound.

Jerome swipes into a small climb from the bed, stretching out. He's watching the rain catch the window, his lips twitching. "Gotta go get my stuff, dollface. I'll be right back. Then we can really get this sleepover started."

"That okay didn't mean you could stay for more than one night!" You blurt out, nerves eating you around the edges. Sleepover? Does he not see that you're not like all the other girls he goes for, most likely?

"We'll see!" He's echoing, already out through the door.

You sit there abashed with utter, ignorant shock, your own outburst catching you off guard with the pounding thunder clasp outside. "FUCK! SHIT, FUCK! Am I dreaming? Goddammit, I'm a walking, talking-wet dream wisher. Wake up, bitch." You slap yourself hard, the imprint leading you back into your Jerome laced reality - real, actual, not made-up-so-I-can-come - reality. He's here. To be with you. Using you or not, he chose you for a reason, you know this much. So why deprive yourself of this chance?

You realize that you hit yourself over this crazy teenager. That's your decision to revel in. Dipping your toes into the pool of consideration to approval for him to stay.

 _Go with it. Let go. Be._ Who cares with him near you? He can do anything, you can be anything with him, can't you? There's no harm here.... Unless, unless he hurls hurt towards you or your parents. But something in you, a rationally delusional side manages to convince you that he'll be true to his word about not harming your family. And that? Well, that just settles /that/.

Your footfalls get you to your window, your fingertips brushing the moisture from the crystal to peer out through the blanketing haze. Either he's going to really get his possessions, or he's tormenting you. Either way, he's here, giving you something to work with. Fuck, you can almost taste his scent still clinging to your shoulder. Winding a soft splaying hand to the bone, you bush your t-shirt down, stimulating the hairs on your arm to raise the goosebumps.

This is what you want.

No, this is what you **need**.

Skimming a look down over your sweatpants covered legs, you remove the article with your panties in tact, admiring the patching wet circle centered in the fabric after it clings to your ankles. With an upmost heart churning rush, you work your way to your bed, slinging yourself into it, burrowing under the comforter, knowing he was here moments beforehand. It's obsessive, it's borderline pathetic to cling to his scent, but you're a lovesick eccentric. Long since secluded into comforting yourself over your unusual ideas.

Cushioning yourself into your bed isn't hard. Teasing yourself, however, is. Limited time crunch, unwilling to wait to quench the quick strapping need, you push your shirt above your breasts - they react to the temperature like you knew they would. It takes only a flick of your index finger to each bud to strike them to attention. You watch them swell with every breath you take, feeling a little fucked out already. Giving them a palming at least, you engage your twitching fingers down to push your thighs apart, rewarded with the rather faithfully parted lips.

The heat is there below your hand, hungry, demanding to be met, already swelling you open.

You can't fight it anymore than you could letting one of Gotham's most wanted maniac's into your home and back into your life.

 _Jerome._ That red hair that doesn't know it's not the star of the show, but clings to suspension with that lone red strand anyway. You swipe a slow stripe down your soaked sex, pushing your lips apart with a sticky ease.

 _Jerome._ Those green eyes that you can't tell if they're haunted with something other than blue to blend. Cause' seriously, which color are they? Hidden by luscious lashes, creamy skin and oozing with freckles. Fuck, where else can he have them? You're wet, so sopping wet that your knuckles become so very drenched.

 _Jerome._ The violence where he can fucking snap, curling those fingers around your neck, thumbing your jugular into submission - casting you into a perfect handed darkness. The hand that can slide a blade across your skin, tearing your clothing apart, making your skin bleed for him. The hands of a psychotic killer whose green eyes you can see beckoning you in from between your thighs - where he lays on his stomach, blade jabbing into your breast from an outstretched arm, perfectly outlining your nipple to attention, whilst his tongue licks everything your flooded pussy has to offer him. You rub your clit to hear your wetness spread, the bud throbbing with silent screams.

 _Jerome._ The way he walks, the way he's built. The way that voice talks with such ferocious-delicious fever. So deep, so different. You'd know it anywhere.

"Jerome, baby," You're chanting to the open room, your thighs apart, feet firmly planted beneath the covers, on the bed. Trembling fingers you slide inside you, pushing against the tight heat. You relax with an arching breath, body wiggling the digit into a crooking hook, dripping with you, it makes that satisfying squelch - your pussy accepting it graciously through former resistance.

 _His longer ones could do this better._ You're twisting, grasping, fucking into your hand with each brutal rock you can make. Thumb sloppily edging your clit back and forth without mercy, your legs quaking from the burning, stretched out muscles trying to hold up.  _Almost._ Sweet stacking. Your vision blurs with shapes dancing across your field. _Right.... There. That swollen spot, what is, is that it? Fuck, yeah......_ "Jerome. J-"

"You know, I never thought it would take this long just to grab some shit from a stolen fire truck. Ditching, running, you'd think simple, you know?"

Frozen solid, hot blood charging cold, you still yourself, letting your legs drop. You brave a look at the ginger, lips puffing to a rough parting gasp. He's got his back turned to you, discarding his rain soaked clothing, your door latching shut. The glow your nightlight casts with the brewing nature beyond these walls is enough to illuminate the tall outline, the drowning red hair that releases each drop of water across his defined back. You're blinking in multiples, slack jawed with your fingers still buried inside you - Jerome Valeska pushing his pants from his hips, leaving him in tight boxers.

Your heart is signaling fear, adrenaline ringing your ears through static rush hour. But your heat is encouraging with slick hold to continue towards those approaching stars. You fight against it, thinking you'll have time if he goes to change. You practically forget the steps to breathing as he slides into the bed with you, wiggling back and forth - getting situated on his back with slippery rain soaked skin. You spasm with flutters that start up your toes and knock into your brain, making you dizzy enough to loll your head to the side to look at him - his eyes looking back.

 _It's easy enough, right?_ Your shirt is down, your hands under the blanket. You can easily peel them to the surface without him noticing. Prior experience is your downfall to this conquest, your legs snapping closed to try to ease the finger out, causing it to push hard against that soft spot your walls hold, instead, making it too fucking late to come back from now. That feeling barrels through you with revving screeches, tackling your belly with the most intense flames, that you have to bite into your lip - breaking the saliva stained skin.

You're powerless to your orgasm happening, your eyes locked with Jerome's, brows bent together in the throws, trying not to shake into a rut. Your lips chatter, tasting the copper that seeps through, smearing across your teeth. It's yanking your energy in a tightrope so fucking covered. Decorating your flesh in afterglow. Your wrist jerks against your damp thighs, releasing as your high subsides, sinking you back from its gratifying, otherworldly hold. You start to attempt to form a sentence, the ginger beating you to it, complete oblivious to what just occurred.

"So what do ya say, Y/N? Can I stay?"

You can't bold bravery to a build to face him yet, trying to catch up with your overworked lungs, so you nod several times, your hands discarding at your sides beneath the comforter. It's almost too much to keep conscious watching him rapidly sheathe himself under the covers now, too. Then he's on his back again, muttering about how cold it is out there. You do nothing, say nothing, side eyeing your discarded clothing, knowing you're still soaking wet and without anything from the waist down. You can get up if he just.... He's sleeping in your bed with you, fuck. You just came looking at him and he doesn't even know.

A warm hand is laying in drift across your abdomen beneath the covers, fingertips drumming to the rain across your sensitive skin. Everything inside you screams to pull him atop you and let him fuck your pussy until you're stretched open and crying his name, shredding the skin on his back - marking him as _**/yours/.**_ That pulsating heat resurfaces into a crashing throb. You hold a deep breath, all your senses on overload.

His voice is for your ears only. Hoarse with something you can't pinpoint after moments pass. "Thanks for letting me stay, gorgeous."

Your eyes close in brief, not catching Jerome glancing with amusement, cupping his hardening cock with darkened eyes, sashaying the orbs across your room, over to look at the pool of your panties and sweats - just feet away, looking as perfect as they did when he seen them on the floor- coming back in from the rain.

 


End file.
